


The Slave

by TeddyRadiator



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyRadiator/pseuds/TeddyRadiator
Summary: The awesomely talented lemonade8 wrote to me and asked if I wanted to work on a collaboration art/drabble project with her. Seeing as I'd rather do collaborations than eat (and y'all KNOW how much I love to do that), she sent me a series of art pieces she'd already done, and the initial outline of a possible story, which I immediately turned dark and dirty and, well, she kept sending me these amazingly gorgeous art pieces and I just couldn't help myself.NOTE: Several folks have said they can't see the images, and I'm not sure why. They show up on my feed. One of our fellow readers said she could see them if you click on them and open them in a new browser. Good luck!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 22
Kudos: 108





	1. The Bar

  
He saw her the moment he arrived, and wondered why other men weren’t jockeying for her attention. She was certainly dressed to invite it. She nursed a red wine; there were several empty glasses on the counter.  
  
It was unseasonably warm, but her clothing choice was about attracting heat, not dissipating it. She was like those tempting desserts in Honeydukes' window displays—the kind you know you shouldn’t order because it’s too rich for your tastes, and you’ll make yourself ill trying to finish.  
  
Severus no longer worried about regrets, now that he could afford to indulge in such temptations.  
  
~~~~~  
  
She looked around the pub with restless vitality, her cinnamon eyes snapping with dissatisfaction. That explained the wide berth. She wasn’t in the mood for just any man.  
  
She was tailor-made for him.  
  
What the hell, he decided. It was late, he was tired and randy. He knew what a woman like her wanted. Some sardonic banter, some gutter dirty talk. A not-so casual brush against a pert nipple that winked at him through her sheer blouse, and she’d be ready to let him take her anywhere.  
  
He thought of the alley behind the pub; yeah, that would do.  
  
~~~~~  
  
He ignored her as he approached the bar.  
  
“Your usual, Snape?” the landlord rasped.  
  
Severus nodded toward the woman, and his pint of bitter was placed on the counter beside her refilled glass.  
  
She shifted; he could feel her eyes on him. “Perfect,” she drawled, irritated. “I can’t even get drunk in a khazi like this without running into someone I know.”

  
  
Severus sighed. “Merlin wept. Hermione bloody Know-it-all Granger.”  
  
She glowered. “Let me guess, Snape—Harry sent you.”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself. Contrary to popular belief, Granger, the world doesn’t revolve around you,” he sneered contemptuously. “But I’ll admit, I’m curious.  
  
~~~~~  
  
“What brings a decorated hero of Hogwarts to a den of iniquity like this?”  
  
“The usual,” she quipped.  
  
Severus allowed his eyes to travel the length of her body, taking in her smooth skin, those luscious breasts. “Perhaps I can be of assistance after all,” he purred, sliding closer.  
  
She snorted; an ugly sound. “Don’t flatter _yourself_.” She stared into the depths of her glass. “If I was looking for a bit of rough, I’d go to a higher class dump than this.” She sighed bitterly. “Every man I meet thinks with his prick. I expected better from you, Snape.”  
  
~~~~~  
  
He scoffed. “Really? I can’t imagine why. I’m no different than any other wizard; I proudly think with my cock. And while my genitals admittedly haven’t always shown the best judgment, they’ve usually exhibited good taste.”  
  
She shot him a withering look, then turned away dismissively. “Yeah. Look, tell Harry I’m fine, and I’ll call him tomorrow, okay?”  
  
“I told you, I’m not here at Potter’s behest.”  
  
“You might as well be,” she snapped. Her resentment startled Severus. “You, me, the Ministry; the Wizarding World owes everything to the great Harry Potter, from whom all blessings flow, don’t you know?”  
  
~~~~~  
  
“You’ve certainly changed your tune since you were a student,” he drawled. “Life as a war hero not all it’s cracked up to be? Growing a little weary of the non-stop adulation?”  
  
“Do give it a rest.” She slumped dejectedly. “I just wanted to go somewhere that’s never heard of Harry or Voldemort or the war—”  
  
“Then exercise your right to talk about someone or something else, Granger,” he said uneasily. “It’s a free country.”  
  
“That’s what you think,” she retorted. “Face it, Snape, in Wizarding Britain, I’m second-class and you’re a slave. I can even prove it.”  
  
~~~~~  
  
In her eyes he saw self-hatred, contempt, uncertain lust. She turned her arm over. Mudblood was carved into the pale flesh. “My accomplishments will always be secondary to blood status.”  
  
Before he could react, she grabbed his arm, revealing the faded Dark Mark. “You’re still a slave to this,” she cooed, stroking it. “Wizarding Britain will condemn you for this mark the rest of your life.”  
  
So, the little lioness hadn’t been declawed, then. Severus jerked his arm away. “Don’t mock me, girl.” he hissed warningly. “And don’t ever presume to know me. I’m no one’s slave, Granger. Not anymore.”  
  
  
  
Suddenly, she leaned closer. “Be honest. Slavery wasn’t so bad, was it? Being forced to do those awful things. No responsibility, no accountability. Someone else’s puppet, acting on their whim.  
  
“I mean, tell the truth: how many times did you do something completely despicable because you wanted to, then slid that blame onto old Voldie? How many times did you let that sick imagination of yours run wild, and told yourself, ‘the devil made me do it’?”  
  
She gave him an ugly laugh. “More times than not, I’ll bet. I’m thinking you can be a right perv when properly motivated.”  
  
~~~~~  
  
He felt a momentary revulsion for her, which morphed into greasy lust. “You have no fucking idea what I’m capable of, little girl,” he growled softly.  
  
Her smirk was obscene. “I’ve got some idea. Big bad Death Eater. Scourge of Muggle-borns.”  
  
“I’m half-blood, Granger. And I don’t assault children.”  
  
“No, you just insult them until they believe they’ll never be good enough for your impossible standards.”  
  
Severus regarded her carefully, then downed his shot.  
  
He’d once heard that the best stories all end with, ‘And then I got the hell out of there.’  
  
This story wasn’t going to end well.  
  
~~~~~  
  
He turned to her, his decision made. “So you believe slavery and worth are defined by our marks?” he queried, his voice soft.  
  
She shrugged, raising her glass to her lips. Severus intercepted it. “I think this discussion calls for something stronger than wine, Hermione.” He and the landlord exchanged a knowing look. “Two Jamesons, Rob.”  
  
“Sure, Snape.”  
  
Severus smiled and reached for the shotglass, brushing the back of his hand against the swell of Hermione’s erect nipple as if by accident. It was all the distraction he needed. She didn’t even notice the potion he slipped into her drink.  
  
  
  
Rob watched the woman’s eyes flutter as the potion took effect. Snape gave him a cool, calculating look. “Still work your day job, Robert?” he asked. “I believe Miss Granger needs to be taught one last lesson by her old professor.”  
  
Rob nodded toward the backdoor. “Sure. I normally ask customers to sign responsibility waivers, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.” He felt a pang of envy; the woman’s lovely breasts pressed against Snape’s chest. True, Snape’s arms were the only things holding her upright.  
  
Certain girls found the greasy git attractive. Until they got to know him.


	2. Tattoo

She was being undressed. At least, her capris were gliding over her hips as if being spelled down. A cool, clammy hand slid over her backside, making her grimace.  
  
_Mustn’t touch what isn’t ours, Rob.  
  
Oh, that’s why you’re playing with her bumcheeks, then, Snape? She _is _a lovely bit of it._  
  
Who? What?  
  
_Mind your business and do your job. How’s your mother’s lumbago? Did the potion work?  
  
You don’t have to bribe me, Snape._ The voice grew darker. _She’s much better. I appreciate what you did. People have no respect for hags; St. Mungo’s wouldn’t even see her._  
  


* * *

  
  
She tried to stir, but a warm hand held her down almost gently. “ _Not yet, Hermione... just a bit longer...”_  
  
Gods, she was sleepy... she was hungover, yeah, that was it... that, and dreaming some very trippy dreams. She was tight and loose in all the wrong places, and the sheer obscenity of the sensations were... oh, and she had had this dream before and... the words were so disturbing. People didn’t say those things. It was a dream. A stinging, singing, tingling pain/pleasure rode low on her hips, below her back, making her want to squirm and buck and moan.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Listen to me, Robert Brackfawn. You’ll keep schtum about this, or your little secret will become everyone’s little secret, do you understand?  
  
I don’t need blackmail, either.  
  
Fine._ A hesitation. _What the fuck are you playing at?  
  
Your blood, Snape. I need a drop for the final spell to seal in the design.  
  
Why?_ A suspicious tone. Why did she know it, and why did it make her shiver and shudder in the same breath?  
  
_Because you want to be able to control her, yeah? A drop of your blood controls the runes; the runes control her. Won’t need much._  
  
A hiss of anger. _Fuck, Rob! A simple slicing spell—_  
  


* * *

  
  
_Spells don’t work, Snape. The blood has to be taken by force to exert force. You of all people ought to know that. You’ve got one of the most powerful blood tattoos ever created rotting on your arm, there.  
  
It’s nothing now. Just a smudge.  
  
Is it, Snape? What if she’s right? What if that tat is still controlling you? There’s certainly enough power—  
  
Can’t you work any faster?_ The dark voice was angry, and Hermione shifted uneasily. Angry was bad. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sensations came over her at once. Burning, searing, blazing pain, running in all directions, like a hot needle etching a crossword puzzle on her back. She wanted to get away from it, but it confined her to the surface she lay upon, a butterfly tacked down by a giant pin. All she could do was feel.  
  
The sensations warred with the voices, telling her to relax, telling someone to _hurry up! The potion won’t last all night._  
  
Agony overwhelmed everything else, and she screamed.  
  
_It’s not supposed to hurt her! You said she wouldn’t feel any pain, you bastard—_  
  


* * *

  
  
Severus was perspiring and swearing under his breath by the time he’d wrestled Hermione’s unconscious form through the Floo to Spinner’s End. “Welcome home, kitten,” he muttered under his breath, looking down at her bedraggled form.  
  
Gods, what a clusterfuck.  
  
Severus’ prodigious nose wrinkled in disgust, but not at her. He was still furious that Rob had not used a numbing spell; the pain had caused her to be violently ill, among other things. She appeared to be wearing every bodily fluid she could produce. He needed to get her out of her ruined clothes and into something remotely bearable _now_.  
  


* * *

  
  
He had never been so glad of Granger’s resourcefulness as he opened her frivolous little handbag and discovered it was roughly the size of Gringott’s inside. She had everything in there; toiletries, money, make-up, even a change of clothing. Good job too, after what that son-of-a-hag bastard Rob had done to her.  
  
Severus laid her down on the bed. She was as light as a feather, and felt as delicate as a petal. Her skin was cool, and even in her unconscious state, she still shivered. On impulse, he lay down on the bed beside her and drew her closer.  
  


* * *

  
  
He gingerly caught the hem of her blouse between his index and middle finger and slowly pulled it up her back. The tattoo was a series of circular patterns, the ancient language within so obscure even he wasn’t sure what it meant. As the half-blood son of a hag and a wizard, Rob Brackfawn’s skills were unique, even rare, but the tattoo’s intent was more or less the same as the one he still wore on his arm.  
  
Just as his Dark Mark had been a connection between himself and the late, not-lamented Voldemort, this one connected him with Hermione.  
  


* * *

  
  
Watching her sleep, Severus felt a minute stab of remorse. What had seemed at the time a great lark, a harmless prank, now seemed dubiously so, even wrong. Hermione whimpered and stirred restlessly; the tattoo was irritating her. He rolled her onto her side, and she slipped effortlessly into his arms. She was small, and nestled against his shoulder with a soft sigh.  
  
She would wake soon enough, and there would be no thoughts of snuggling against him. She would be furious, demanding, and rebellious, until she discovered what he’d done. There would be no tender embraces for him then.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
When he’d been exonerated, the _Prophet_ had called him the tragic, misunderstood hero. Where had it got him? An Order of Merlin, bit of blood money from the government. True, he no longer danced to any tune but his own, but what good was that when the song was overplayed and boring?  
  
He’d learned how to get just about any witch he wanted, but why this one? The others wanted fantasies, and he could spin them very well. Granger hadn’t wanted his fantasies. What _had_ she wanted?  
  
And what did he really want from Granger? A good, old-fashioned power trip?  
  


* * *

  
  
She already thought the worst of him. What would a few days of discomfort matter? She would be powerless against him, even if he allowed her to keep her wand, which he wouldn’t. He was drunk; he wasn’t stupid.  
  
So, she thought of herself as second-class. He’d give her a taste; just for a few days. He’d show her what it was like to be truly mastered, to know what a second-class citizen really meant.  
  
No, a few days of scrubbing the house would make her appreciate how good she had it. His malicious joy and anticipation faded a little.  
  


* * *

  
  
In the cold light of pre-dawn, he allowed himself this moment of introspection. Granger could always get under his skin. In her youth she had been such a carbuncle of _piss-off_. Even after she’d learned to stop regurgitating other people’s ideas and started coming up with her own, he’d spent half her class time holding himself back from throttling her.  
  
Severus shook the remorse away like a dog in a downpour. How dare she judge him? Just because her life wasn’t all _ha ha hee hee_ didn’t give her the right to inspect his under such a condescending, disapproving microscope.  
  


* * *

  
  
So what if in the old days he’d done a few dirty deeds dirt cheap without too much thought? In the long run, who’d paid for it more than he?  
  
_Ah, screw it,_ he thought. _She already thinks I’m a perv. Granger_ needs _to be taken down a peg or two; she’s been asking for it for years. Why not prove the rule and teach her a lesson?_  
  
Severus rose from the bed, and Hermione rolled over onto her stomach. The tattoo glowed faintly, like a live wire spelling magic under her skin.  
  
His blood was in there as well.  
  


* * *

  
  
The tattoo pulsed with her heartbeat; a glowing, pearly light beneath her flesh. It was, in its own way, beautiful. On impulse he touched it.  
  
Everything happened so quickly. Hermione awoke with a wail that could wake the dead, and Severus reeled back with a short bark of horror.  
  
In that split-second when he’d touched her, she had seen through his eyes, and he’d been inside her unconscious mind—for the briefest of moments, they had switched places.  
  
“What the _fuck_?” she bellowed, glowering in the corner.  
  
Severus suddenly wondered why he’d not asked if the tattoo could be removed.


	3. Service

  
  
  
  
The water was growing almost too cold to bear, but Hermione remained in the tub, slowly moving the flannel over her skin, as if infusing it with some sort of soothing balm. She could feel his growing impatience, and though it felt as if a live wire was charging the bath water, urging her to get out, she resolutely stayed.  
  
Returning to screaming consciousness in Severus Snape’s house was not exactly one of her objectives the night she’d gone to that tatty bar, the Hag’s Head. She’d been fed up and bored and frustrated with what passed for her life.  
  


* * *

She’d had a furious row with Ron that afternoon. It was true she’d decided to break it off with him, but the fact that she’d caught him in the act of snogging some tart while they were technically still together had definitely not been cricket. Harry and Ginny had dutifully waded into the fracas, with their perfect marriage and two-point-oh children and everything so wonderful for them.  
  
And Ron, the bastard he was, hadn’t batted a ginger-fringed eye. He’d actually had the gall to say, “Geez, ‘Mione, if you’d just be sensible we could just go ahead and get married.  
  


* * *

“You know Mum’s dying for us to start a family so Harry and Ginny’s kids would have cousins to play with. Harry, back me up,” he’d added, turning to their best friend and de facto supervisor. It had been the first time they’d ganged up on her.  
  
Insouciantly Ron added, “You’re her boss; she has to take orders from you. Tell her to stop this nonsense and set a date.”  
  
“His eyebrows will grow back,” she’d grumbled later, growing more defensive beneath Harry’s reproachful scrutiny. “It’s not like I hexed his bollocks off, which, believe me, was my first choice.”  
  


* * *

“Look Hermione,” Harry had replied, Mr Earnest Friend and all-round Good Guy. “Maybe you and Ron should just talk about it. These things always look darker than they are.”  
  
He smiled as he took Ginny’s perfect hand and gave her his perfect husband smile. “I’m sure you’ll work it out. There’s nothing that can’t be solved with a good old fashioned talk over tea. After all, you’re working together at the Ministry. You can just iron these things out before Monday.”  
  
And that, as they say, had been that. The final straw that broke the crack on the camel’s back.  
  


* * *

Once again, Ron and Harry had decided what was best for her without actually consulting her. Fuming with anger, Hermione had stalked out of Grimmauld Place loudly declaring to anyone who would listen that she was, “bloody sick of these bloody perfect people deciding how she was going to live her bloody life!”  
  
There might have been some hint of the Scrotum Shrinking spell being used on or about Ron’s person. There may have also been some mention about the rather tight-fitting area where both Ron and Harry could stick her job.  
  
The slamming-door/Harry-begging-her-to-stay combination had never sounded so satisfying.  
  


* * *

So she’d ignored Harry’s pleadings, and gone to the crummiest, seediest dump she could think of. She was in the perfect mood to hex someone into oblivion for merely looking her way. It was the perfect bar to go looking for trouble. No one would recognise her there—so she had assumed.  
  
Running into Severus Snape, looking smug and better than anyone with his credentials had a right to was simply one more thing that got on her wick. It wasn’t fair to see her former professor looking so self-satisfied when she felt so jaded and sick of it all.

* * *

Hermione sighed. The water was scummy and dirty; she’d changed it twice. She couldn’t get clean in it; she couldn’t warm it. Snape still had her wand, and his dump of a house didn’t have an inexhaustible supply of hot water. She felt him growing impatient, wanting her to get out to make his tea, no doubt. She could _sense_ it. And damned if she was going to, even if he turned the water into ice.  
  
As she sat hunched and miserable in the cold, grey water, she was forced to admit that she’d been the orchestrator of her undoing.  
  


* * *

She’d bated Snape; she’d been disrespectful to a wizard who’d committed the unpardonable sin of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d just come in for a drink, for Merlin’s sake. She’d been spoiling for a fight, and Snape, looking relaxed and healthy and a little sexier than she would have admitted, was ready to give her one.  
  
She’d always wanted to match wits with him; he’d been so harsh during her school years, using his intelligence and his stunning voice like a rapier. With a little dutch courage, she’d fired the first volley across the prow.  
  


* * *

She should have known not to trade insults with a master; he’d always had the tongue of a wasp. Pretty soon, she was groping him, and no good was ever going to come of that.  
  
She’d just proven how stupid a Gryffindor really was. First she’d derided his Dark Mark, all but saying he enjoyed having it. She’d flourished her little gift from the late, unlamented Bellatrix Lestrange, like it was something to be proud of. There for a moment, they’d been like mates, comparing scars and tattoos and having a little pissing contest over who was the bigger hardcase.  
  


* * *

Sadly, she’d forgotten her alma mater’s motto: Never tickle a sleeping dragon. She’d insulted, accused and belittled it, too.  
  
And the bastard had Rohypnoled her. Well, the wizarding equivalent, anyway.  
  
Coming awake had been terrifying, namely because she was seeing herself through Snape’s eyes.  
  
“What the fuck was _that?_ ” she’d screeched, cowering in a filthy corner of the room.  
  
She’d give Snape this—he covered his own bullshit freak out pretty quickly. He’d looked at her with those narrow, black eyes and sneered, “Welcome to Spinner’s End, Miss Granger. I thought I’d accommodate your request.”  
  
“To do what—kidnap me?”  
  


* * *

She was so confused, and in her muzzy state, the argument, Ron and Harry’s interference and Snape’s arrogance merged into one large ball of epic melt down.  
  
“How dare you drug me and bring me here against my will?” She crossed the bare wood floor on unsteady legs, putting on a good show of strength, even if the room was spinning a little. “I could have you arrested, you know! In fact, _I_ could arrest you! I’m a Ministry employee, and I don’t care how big a hero you are—”  
  
“Down!” he’d roared, like a lion-tamer at a circus.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
He placed his warm palm on her forehead and she sank to her knees as if her bones had turned to oil. Every nerve ending in her body ignited with a stinging, painful rush of _something_ that made her feel nauseous and helpless—and unspeakably aroused. She blinked up at him, unable to speak, unable to breathe for the rush of power he held sway.  
  
Snape looked down at her with a mixture of anger and uncertainty, but the latter was gone before Hermione could fully clock it. He sneered down at her, “Are you prepared to behave, Miss Granger?  
  


* * *

“Frankly, as pleasurable as this is, I can easily twist it into something you won’t find nearly as enjoyable.”  
  
Hermione tried to answer, but her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, and the sensations traveling through her were so intense she thought she might slip out of consciousness again.  
  
“I asked you a question, Granger. Answer me!” Snape hissed imperiously.  
  
“Yes,” she managed, and he pressed harder, almost bending her backward. “Yes, sir!”  
  
“Good,” he said, then released her as abruptly as he’d touched her. He backed up, his erection obvious behind the placket of his trousers.  
  


* * *

The mad feeling of overwhelming desire dissipated quickly, leaving Hermione drained and panting.  
  
“Wh—what was that?” she gasped, looking into his troubled eyes. “What have you done?”  
  
Snape straightened and affected his world-weary persona, but Hermione could sense he too was rattled by what had transpired. His apprehension bothered her; a man like Severus Snape never wanted anyone to see him sweat.  
  
“What happened at the bar?” she said, then because something within her demanded it, she added, “Sir? Please?”  
  
That seemed to settle him, and he flicked his dark hair out of his face and lifted his chin.  
  


* * *

“Since you see yourself as a slave, I took it upon myself to make you one.” His smile was a little more confident in its wolfishness. “My former associate Rob is an expert in the art of binding tattoos. You liked my Dark Mark so much, I thought I’d give you one of your own, except that instead of Tom Riddle holding the reigns,” he added sinuously, “I do.”  
  
The last of the lust burned out of her system, and she rose to her feet angrily. “How fucking dare you, you slimy git! I’ll have you in Azkaban before—”  
  


* * *

This time, he merely cupped his hand against her cheek. Her voice was silenced like a Muggle radio being switched off. Instead of lust, calm stole over her, so relaxing and encompassing she momentarily forgot why she was angry with him. “You... it’s not fair,” she said, gasping.  
  
“No, it isn’t,” he said, softly, spitefully, his shoulders dropping their tension. “But it will teach you in future to hold your tongue about things of which you have no knowledge.”  
  
He released her again, and the burning anger threatened to return. He stepped back, and she waited for him to speak.  
  


* * *

“Are you ready to listen, or shall I expect another rude outburst?”  
  
Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded. “Good,” he replied. He began to pace, as he had done in Potions classes, a frown of concentration drawing down the corners of his mouth. “You were very free with your opinions of me and my situation. You called me a slave, a second-class citizen, and I believe...” he favoured her with one of his patented melodramatic pauses, “a perve.”  
  
Hermione scoffed, but kept her silence. Whatever power he had when he touched her was too disturbing; she didn’t want to risk it again.  
  


* * *

He headed for the door. “I suggest you get a good night’s sleep, Granger. You’re going to need it.”  
  
“What do you mean?” she said, warily, casting about the room for her wand. “Where are my things? Where’s my wand? People will be worried about me—”  
  
“You are taking a few days off to decide how you and Mr Weasley are going to proceed in mending your relationship problems. Your supervisor has already sent you an owl to that effect, and I responded in your name agreeing to take the time off. It was surprisingly easy.”  
  
“Wait—what—”  
  


* * *

“You will start with this room in the morning. I want it spotless before noon. Breakfast is at seven a.m. if you want it. If not, you’ll eat when I feel like feeding you.  
  
“Oh, you’ll be well-fed and well-treated,” he added, pre-empting another interruption, “but you will be my slave for the week. You’re reasonably intelligent, or so I was told over and over during your illustrious career at Hogwarts,” he said dryly. “A week should be enough to show you what slavery really means to the Wizarding world. And the tattoo on your back should keep you obedient.”  
  


* * *

He turned in the doorway, his face as hard as she’d ever seen it. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m being obtuse. I could do some pretty nasty things to you right now. The tattoo compels me as well as you. And don’t think I’m not just a little tempted.” His eyes were like coal, pitted with dark fire.  
  
“I remember,” he said softly, “being summoned, being forced to humiliate myself, helpless to resist. You don’t know, not really.”  
  
He walked through the door. “Cheer up, Granger. At least you’re not shackled to Weasley. That’s torture in anyone’s book.”  
  


* * *

It took two days to clean the first floor of the house. Whatever he was, Severus Snape was not a housekeeper. Without magic, Hermione scrubbed floors, rubbed down the grubby wallpaper, washed bed linens and curtains and scraped two generations of dust off the nightstand.  
  
Snape was good to his word; he fed her well, and offered her breaks, even when she wanted to keep working. So she skipped a break, and he denied her respite for the rest of the day. It took until the next day for Hermione to realise he wasn’t being cruel.  
  
He was being controlling.  
  


* * *

All day and the next, Snape gave her task after task, seemingly random and often puzzling. He controlled when she could rest, so she did. He told her she could eat and sleep, and she did. In between, he read the paper, made potions for the Hogwarts infirmary, and critiqued.  
  
Strangely enough, he wasn’t unreasonable, at least not by Hermione’s standards. He was detailed, and expected his orders to be carried out precisely.  
  
“Merlin, you’ve got sloppy in your old age,” he muttered, after inspecting the chimney breast. “I seem to recall you were an overachiever of the first division.  
  


* * *

“You’ll have to do a little better than that.”  
  
“I would if I could change clothes,” she muttered under her breath.  
  
“What did you say?” he asked, his voice the colour of an East End funeral.  
  
Wincing, Hermione looked down at the tight jeans he’d given her to wear. He’d apparently Transfigured her original capris, and transforming clothing was obviously not a strength.  
  
“I said, I’d do a better job if my clothes weren’t so tight,” she replied, teeth clenched.  
  
“Could you?” he purred, with a smirk so patronising and familiar she could have been back in second year Potions.

* * *

Snape raised his wand like a conductor’s baton, and struck a downbeat. “Well, Cinderella, this should curtail any further excuses.”  
  
Hermione felt the clothing loosen. The colours grew darker and the fabric heavier, until it sat on her body snugly. She looked down at her new cleaning attire and dropped her shoulders, humiliated.  
  
“You have _got_ to be joking!” she thundered, giving him the withering glance that had a bladder-loosening effect on many of her co-workers.  
  
Snape didn’t look the least bit incontinent. He answered with a beatific smile. “You’re welcome.”  
  
He’d transfigured her workclothes into a ruby red ballgown.  
  


  
  
Hermione waited patiently as he walked around the room, inspecting her work. She was tired, her back aching; she leaned against the bedpost, trying to look as if she wasn’t slouching. It wasn’t too different from all the times he’d inspected her Potions work. He had never said much; she had always hoped it was because he couldn’t fault it.  
  
He finally faced her. “Well done, Granger. I’ve been meaning to get a house-elf, but I think you’ll do nicely.”  
  
A withering retort rose to her lips, but she merely huffed. She was too damn tired to get shirty now.  
  


* * *

“It seems you’ve earned a little reward.” He faced her, very still. “Come here,” he said, that dark voice alluring enough without the tattoo’s compulsion spell stinging like wire on her back. She stepped closer, and without warning, he pulled her into his arms and yanked the back of her shirt out of her jeans.  
  
His long fingers stroked over the tattoo with the whispering caress of a lover, and Hermione’s knees buckled. “Oh, Merlin, no,” she whimpered, staring up into his black, heavy-lidded eyes.  
  
“Oh yes,” he breathed, a faint smile of promise on his lips. “Just enjoy it.”  
  
  
  
She was paralysed; she couldn’t stand it. It was too good; it was too intense. Staring mutely into his face, Hermione could see that Snape knew exactly what was going on in her body.  
  
The sweet rush of an orgasm took her completely by surprise, and she cried out, and put her arms around him, holding on as wave after wave of ecstasy rolled over her. His fingers teased over the Mark on her back, sending her senses into overload, and she collapsed against him, gasping in rapturous exhaustion.  
  
“That’s it,” he crooned, “Now, does that make things easier, Hermione?”  
  


* * *

She could hear the arousal in his voice. He sounded drunk on the power he had over her. Suddenly it didn’t matter that the tattoo affected him as much as her; it was his manipulation that sent her into a tailspin.  
  
She pushed him away from her, and ran unsteadily from the room.  
  
Even now, sitting in the frigid bath water, dishwater dull from dirt and her own shame, Hermione felt the humiliation wash over her anew. And close on its heels was the remembered ecstasy, and the stunned longing she saw in his eyes as she pushed him away.  
  


* * *

Severus’ hands were unsteady as he poured himself a drink. Damn Robert Brackfawn! He’d laughed when Severus Floo’d him, asking him how to remove the tat. “You just had it done, Snape,” he’d replied lustily. “Surely you know better than most these things are a bit unpredictable at first.”  
  
 _Unpredictable my arse_ , Severus thought. He was stunned at the raw level of desire he felt for Granger. This was supposed to be a little lesson in dominance and control, but in the end, who was controlling whom? He glared at the chimney breast, remembering her, down on her knees, working.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Her brow had been furrowed in thought, and her dexterous, clever hands had moved over the blackened iron with agile, deliberate strength. He could feel the waves of humiliation and resentment, and they humiliated him too. This was the curse of the tattoo; his pleasure became her pleasure. Her pain became his pain.  
  
Even now, he could feel the icy water of the tub, setting his teeth on edge. They had realised early on that he could mentally control her up to a point, and he closed his eyes, trying to force her out of the tub. She was freezing.  
  


* * *

Just as he thought he would have to go in and verbally force her out, he felt warmth steal into his limbs; she was done. He sagged with relief. He really should let her go; just send her home with her lesson learned and promise to find a way to get rid of the tattoo. This had gone too far in a direction he hadn’t planned on it going.  
  
And yet, he remembered her defiant dismissal of what amounted to his entire life, and he stayed his hand. Already she was calming down. Just a few more days, then. Maybe.  
  


* * *

Hermione wandered down into Snape’s potions lab, unable to face him. This was the only place in the house she hadn’t been forced to clean. It was immaculate and well-ordered, each vial of Potion meticulously labeled and dated for the Infirmary. She sat down amongst the ingredients he’d sat aside for tomorrow’s brewing, and laid her head down on the table, knowing she’d no doubt get told off for contaminating the surface.  
  
It smelled of fresh herbs—star anise, saffron and bitterroot. Soft, comforting smells.  
  
Two hours later, Snape found her asleep at his bench. He carried her to bed.  
  



	4. Substitute

  
At eight o’clock, he walked into the room, and handed her Muggle twenty-pound notes. Looking away, he said, “Take these to Bernard Row. Two blocks straight out the front door. You’ll find several women waiting by the doorway of the newsagent’s. Find one that doesn’t look too drug-addled or disease-ridden and bring her to me.”  
  
Hermione looked at him with stupid incredulity. “You want me to bring you a whore?” The breath left her body, replaced with anger so hot it stunned her. “You want me to go out onto the street and select some prossie for you to fuck?”  
  


* * *

His sneer could not have been more foul. “No, Granger. We’re going to have tea and biccies and talk about the role of the Ministry in an ever-changing Wizarding world. Of course I’m going to fuck her!”  
  
Hermione could feel her rage being pushed down by the power of the tattoo. It burned like a brand on her back. She looked away, fighting for control over her emotions.  
  
“And how on earth am I supposed to get a woman to follow me home?”  
  
Severus nodded at the money. “That’s your persuader. These aren’t the choosiest women in the world.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  


* * *

When he didn’t rise to her goad, she looked up at the ceiling, fighting tears. “So, does Monsieur have a preference?” she asked, her voice caustic and brittle. “Colour? Height? Weight? Blonde, brunette, ginger—”  
  
“No redheads,” he spat, and Hermione’s eyes shot to his face. Something was definitely off. He wouldn’t look her in the eye, for one, and he didn’t look particularly comfortable in his own skin at the moment. He glanced up to find her observing him, and snarled, “What are you waiting for? Just do it, Granger! You don’t want to piss me off about this.”  
  


* * *

Hermione left the house, fuming, the bank notes feeling soiled and greasy in her hand. Almost nauseous with humiliation, she walked the two blocks on Bernard Row until she located the newsagents. Sure enough, a handful of women stood milling around, smoking, talking, their eyes constantly searching, searching. They barely acknowledged her as she approached the only auburn-haired woman in the bunch.  
  
Cringing with humiliation, she made a pathetic attempt at a smile. “Um, hi.”  
  
The redhead looked at her companions warily before answering. “Hello, love. You lost?” Her husky voice went perfectly with her laquered nails and tight dress.  
  


* * *

  
Hermione just bet those breasts were fake—good fake, but fake nonetheless.  
  
With a glance at the other women, Hermione beckoned to her. With a knowing smile, the redheaded woman sauntered closer, her high heels clicking on the pavements. “You know, I’m not usually into women, but—”  
  
“No!” Hermione blurted, appalled. “I’m here for a—a friend.” She held out five of the twenty’s. “There’s another five of these in it for you.”  
  
Red scoffed. “A friend? Male or female?”  
  
“Male.” Hermione suddenly found it impossible to look the woman in the eye. “If you’ll just come with me.”  
  


* * *

After the slightest of hesitations, the redhead turned back to her fellow working girls. With a little wave, she sang out, “Well, gotta go pay the rent. Have a good night, ducks.”  
  
They all gave her either a wave or various parting words. An older woman with badly-dyed hair watched her go, a faint line of concern between her exaggeratedly made up eyes. “You look out for yourself, Cassie.”  
  
“Will do, Alma.”  
  
Cassie and Hermione headed back to Spinner’s End quietly. As they headed toward the door, she turned to Hermione and said diffidently, “I normally charge extra to share.”  
  


* * *

Hermione could feel her face growing hot. “No, it’s not like that.” She sighed. “You can’t share what doesn’t belong to you.”  
  
Cassie walked through the door and looked around. “Not bad. Yours?”  
  
“Mine.” Hermione and the prostitute turned to see Severus lounging in the doorway, wearing black leather trousers and a grey silk shirt. With his freshly washed hair, he was, if not handsome, certainly worth a second look.  
  
Cassie went all business; playing with her hair, cocking her hip, lowering her lashes. “ _All_ yours, gorgeous.”  
  
Hermione stifled a snort of derision, but it was not lost on Severus.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He regarded Hermione with a cool look, and held out his hand to Cassie.  
  
“The bedroom’s upstairs...?” he raised his eyebrow, and the redhead smiled as she slipped her hand in his.  
  
“Cassie, babe, and I’m right behind you.” She turned back to Hermione, her look pitying. “Sure you don’t want to join us? On the house.”  
  
Severus laughed, a low, dark chuckle that had the same seductive effect on Cassie as it did on Hermione. “I’m afraid Cinderella has to stay home from the ball.”  
  
Cassie gave Hermione a last, almost regretful glance. “Well, then lead on, sweet prince.”  
  


* * *

Hermione wore what she hoped was a bland expression as Severus led Cassie up the stairs. “Why don’t I give you the grand tour?” he said, his voice drifting carelessly down the stairs.  
  
Hermione sat down on the sofa, feeling sick. It wasn’t just the humiliation of being forced to do his every bidding. It wasn’t even the fact that he’d ordered her to go and bring him a whore with the same thoughtless disdain as he would’ve demanded a pizza. _And_ had sex with her while Hermione waited downstairs.  
  
She shuddered. It was more about her state of mind.  
  


* * *

It was unconscionable, but she couldn’t lie to herself. “Why didn’t he want me?” she whispered to the immaculately clean room. Suddenly she _was_ Cinderella, and a cut-rate one at that. On the heels of that thought came the killing anger. _My pleasure—your pleasure. Your pain—my pain._  
  
She’d be damned if she was going to listen to the increasing crescendo of moans and laughter from above. She’d let the fucking tattoo incinerate her first.  
  
She forced herself to walk out onto the front step. The enchantment made her feel as if her skin were about to split open.  
  


* * *

She sat on the stoop, gasping against the compelling spell. Her back ached. The tattoo burned like acid; she felt a million insects crawling over her skin.  
  
The only thing keeping her from slouching back into the house was her hatred – of Snape, of her own foolish choices, her jealousy, and her stubbornness. She lost track of time, gripping onto the stoop as if she’d fly away if she let go, and waited. Her stomach churned with the knowledge that he was in there with a woman, having sex with her, and it was more about revenge than about pleasure.  
  


* * *

 _”My pain—your pain.”_ Hermione jerked upright. She wasn’t just feeling the effects of defying the tattoo; Severus was... hurting. Not physically, exactly, although she could feel physical discomfort that wasn’t hers and wasn’t the tattoo’s.  
  
It was a roiling of emotions churning through him—guilt, anger, frustration, sorrow and regret. They made her feel seasick, buffeting as she was by them.  
  
This was a little exercise in who was the top dog—and it was backfiring on him. Still trapped in a role he hated, because he didn’t know any other way to feel control over his own life.  
  


* * *

The door swung open and Cassie walked out, adjusting a bra strap and smoking a fag, looking no different than when she walked in. Wordlessly, Hermione gave her the rest of the money, and moved past the woman, back into the house. After the time outdoors without permission, just the relief from the compelling spell would be enough to calm her.  
  
“Well, another day, another dollar, as the Yanks say,” Cassie said breezily. “He’ll need a sea voyage after that.”  
  
“I’m sure,” Hermione replied, having no idea what to say to a prostitute after a successful encounter with a client. “Have a... a nice evening,” she finished lamely.  
  
“Will do, ducks.” Cassie glanced back toward the door. “Not too bad, actually. Nice enough old feller. Took awhile to get it going, but some do, you know. Here, d’you think he’ll be wanting me another—”  
  
“No,” Hermione said sharply, feeling the sick, twisted jealousy churning in her gut. _I’ll die before doing this again._  
  
Cassie gave her a knowing look. “Look, love, it’s none of my business, but whatever’s going on between you two needs to be resolved, and letting him fuck a prossie ain’t the way to do it.”  
  


* * *

Hermione turned away to hide her tears. “I know. It’s complicated. We’re not lovers, it’s just...” She sighed. “It’s a mistake.”  
  
To her surprise, Cassie hugged her. Gently, she added, “Well, it is on his part. You’re really lovely, you know. I wasn’t joking when I suggested you join us.”  
  
Hermione was startled into rueful laughter. “Oddly enough, that makes me feel a little better,” she replied, accepting Cassie’s offer of a tissue from her scuffed purse.  
  
Cassie gave her another sisterly hug. “Cheer up, ducks,” she added kindly, as Hermione dried her eyes. “Men—can’t beat ‘em. Pity, innit?”  
  


* * *

A sharp pain bloomed from the tattoo and radiated across her back. The Master’s voice. Trying hard not to wince, Hermione said, “I’d better go.”  
  
“Good luck, love,” Cassie replied with a little wave. “And don’t let this fester. You and him need to work things out, for better or worse.”  
  
Hermione nodded. “We will.”  
  
As Hermione made to close the door, Cassie turned back. “Say, flower, is your name Harmony?”  
  
“No; Hermione.”  
  
Cassie’s eyes widened. “Ahh! Well, that explains it, then.”  
  
“Explains what?”  
  
The pitying look was back in her eyes. “The name he was shouting when he came.”


	5. Wake

  
Severus could not make himself get out of bed. Lying there, literally stewing in his own juices, he wondered if he finally had gone mad. He glanced down at his flaccid member, and felt disgust. What had he been thinking?  
  
The prossie had been all pro. She’d even acted interested, but that was as false as those voluminous breasts. And wasn’t that just a fairly accurate summation of an evening that had gone tits up? He hadn’t really wanted her, and he hadn’t wanted Hermione go and get her.  
  
So why in Merlin’s name did he make her do it?  
  


* * *

He sat up, groaning. What a disastrous mess this was turning out to be. All these grand intentions; what had he hoped to accomplish? He’d already taught Granger the importance of jumping to conclusions.  
  
He glanced over at his reflection in the mirror. “Severus Snape, this is not who you are,” he muttered.  
  
“Is it not? Coulda fooled me, cockers,” sneered the mirror, speaking in the same coarse Mancunian drawl as when he’d first charmed it at seventeen.  
  
In twenty-eight years, he’d never managed to teach it to change.  
  
Actually, he’d never been too good at training himself either, apparently.  
  
  


* * *

He scratched a badly-shaven patch on his chin, and heaved a sigh of relief. Granger had come back inside. He could sense her humiliation and anger; it registered as waves of pain, clawing at him.  
  
It had started as a joke; a little power trip to show her who was in charge. He knew it would eat her alive to fetch a prostitute for him, but he still had enough residual resentment in his soul to see it through.  
  
Hardly.  
  
Once they got down to business, he couldn’t get it up. Oh, she was skilled; he just couldn’t do it.  
  


* * *

Finally a surreptitious spell enabled him to at least perform, but he felt indescribably dirty, as if he were the whore and she was the client. He closed his eyes, trying to at least finish it, when the image of Granger swam in his vision. He pushed it away, thinking that would be the absolute worst dereliction in a long line of disservices he’d already given her.  
  
But her image glued itself to his frontal lobe like it was held by a Sticking Charm, and he remembered her climaxing in his arms, and suddenly his desire roared guiltily into life.  
  


* * *

His cock grew rock hard, and despite the distress he could feel in Hermione’s thoughts, he realised with queasy self-loathing that he wanted her. Not like this, not servicing him like the prostitute, but he wanted to get to know her, learn her from the inside out.  
  
He wanted to apologise, and he wanted to start over, but all he could feel was this wave of arousal, and then he was thrusting, and the woman beneath him was panting in his ear and even though she smelled of cigarettes and unsuccessful deodorant he pictured Granger’s face and he was coming—  
  


* * *

  
He sprang out of bed, heart pounding. With a groan, he pulled on his trousers. He was pretty sure he’d cried out when he climaxed, and he was pretty sure the prossie had heard the name he’d bellowed as well. And she was savvy enough to put two and two together.  
  
“Gods, what a mess,” he groaned. Still, an impressive record; he’d managed to offend two women with one orgasm. Perhaps he should Floo Minerva at Hogwarts and tell her he knew all about her secret trysts with Pomona. Go for the Hat Trick.  
  
He crossed to the fireplace, scowling.  
  


* * *

“Look, Snape, I told ya, it’s just a compelling tattoo. What exactly is the problem?”  
  
Severus glared at the half-blood. “Stop bullshitting me, Rob. What kind of geas is enclosed within the ink? You’ve placed something in there.”  
  
Rob Brackfawn looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you so convinced I’ve added something to the spell?”  
  
“Because it makes me—” Severus bit back his words. “I’m doing things I wouldn’t normally do. That’s all I’m prepared to say. You must have done something more to the tattoo.”  
  
“I haven’t.”  
  
“You’re lying!”  
  
Rob shrugged. “Sorry you think so, but I'm not.”  
  


* * *

Severus snarled, “You’ve added to the compelling portion of the spell. It’s making me do and say things to the girl I have no intention of doing.”  
  
“Have you checked the tattoo for any compulsion spell?”  
  
Glaring, Severus answered reluctantly, “Yes. And no, I didn’t find anything, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. If I discover you’ve done something and you’re not telling me the truth about it—”  
  
“You just keep telling yourself that, Snape. You just keep telling yourself you couldn’t possibly be doing these things on your own. Not like you at all,” Rob smirked nastily.  
  


* * *

“You bastard—”  
  
“Save your histrionics for the girl, Snape. Whatever little game is going on between you two has nothing to do with me, so don’t even try and lay this at my door. You wanted her, you got her. I’m sure you’ve heard of the phrase, ‘be careful what you ask for’.”  
  
Rob cut off the Floo call with a flash of green fire. Severus sat back on his haunches, and closed his eyes. He wished he had a time-turner and could erase the past few days.  
  
He got to his feet, and started downstairs. Now or never.  
  


* * *

He felt the panic before he reached her bedroom. She was having a nightmare, and he eased the door open, thinking he would wait until it passed.  
  
She was lying on her stomach, clad in a vest and plain knickers. The bedclothes were bunched beneath her, and the moon kissed her shoulders with pale, silvery light, making her skin gleam in the darkness. Her wild hair covered her face, and he could see it shivering. She was trembling all over.  
  
“Please, no,” she was moaning, and the despair in her voice made the hairs on his arm prickle with unease.  
  
  
  
He gingerly sat down beside her on the bed, and placed a hand on her back. She moaned, and arched up against it. “Please help me,” she whispered.  
  
He stroked her back. “Wake up, Hermione. It’s just a dream,” he said quietly.  
  
“I know,” she said. “It never ends.”  
  
Unnerved, he pulled his hand away. “Just wake up. I’ll be over.”  
  
He saw the tattoo glowing at the base of her spine, calling him like a siren. A sudden, almost painful arousal bloomed in his groin, and he felt lightheaded as most of the blood in his brain traveled south.


	6. Confrontation

  
No. He needed to leave, get out, walk away, leave England, even. He couldn’t take advantage of her again. This was wrong, so fucking wrong.  
  
“Hermione, please wake up. I’ll be gone for awhile, but I’ll be back—”  
  
“No!” She turned, and to his surprise, wrapped her arms around his neck in a frantic hold. “Don’t you dare! Don’t do this to me! Don’t hurt me, then leave!”  
  
He sighed, and held her, avoiding the tattoo. “No. I won’t. I promise. That was unforgivable.” He nuzzled her hair. It was so soft, so fragrant.  
  
He felt like a sonofabitch.  
  


* * *

He slumped into her arms, too tired for any Slytherin posturing or games. “Forgive me, Hermione. For all of this. I’ve done some blazingly stupid things out of spite before, but I think I’ve outdone myself this time.”  
  
Her silence was an agreement in and of itself, and it was a long time before she replied. “What is it that makes you and I so, so, I don’t know?” She huffed in exasperation. “I can never express myself properly when it comes to you.”  
  
She sat back; he released her. “Why do we feel the need to hurt each other?”  
  


* * *

He had no real answer for her. “We are what we are. Two basically fucked-up people.”  
  
“Speak for yourself!” she replied tartly, but there was no rancour behind it. “I don’t know what it is about you. What it’s always been about you. Since I was a student, you’ve fascinated me and infuriated me and hurt me.”  
  
She looked up at him guiltily. “And yet, there _is_ something about you.” She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “Something that makes me want to figure you out.”  
  
She looked away. “Something that makes me want you.”  
  


* * *

Severus felt his entire body flush with white heat. “The-the tattoo—”  
  
“Good try, Severus,” she said with a wry, sad smile. “So how did a tattoo make me react that way, before you actually had it drawn on me?”  
  
His eyes shot to hers. She looked unhappy. “I knew you drank there. I told myself that wasn’t why I went that night, but it was. I went there hoping I’d run into you. I wanted to prove to you I wasn’t the little obnoxious girl you knew.” Her sigh lasted ages. “We know how well that went, don’t we?”  
  


* * *

They looked at one another for a long time. Severus felt a tearing, ragged pain in his soul. She wanted him. She wanted to get to know him. He should say something, anything, to either push her away or entice her to invite him to her bed. Why did his tongue feel glued to the roof of his mouth?  
  
 _Because then you’ll have to accept you want her as well, and that means you’ll have to accept you might become worthy of someone like her. And that, mate, is something you’re not willing to admit, isn’t it? Not yet, anyway._  
  


* * *

“The Dark—Tom Riddle approached me regarding you.”  
  
She blanched. “When?”  
  
“Shortly before the end of the war; one night at Malfoy Manor, your name was mentioned.”  
  
Hermione shuddered. “Was it during... a revel?”  
  
Severus snorted. “You’ve been reading the _Prophet_. Revels? Hardly. Sex wasn’t on his agenda. Death Eaters were terrorists, not hedonists. Still, good recruitment fodder.”  
  
He remembered Greg Goyle actually pouting at his first Death Eater meeting. “I thought there’d be whores,” he’d whined, glowering at Severus as if he was personally responsible for their absence. He’d turned to Vince Crabbe. “Didn’t you think there’d be whores?”  
  


* * *

Severus continued, “He asked me if you were as clever as he’d been led to believe.”  
  
She looked at him warily. “What did you tell him?”  
  
He suddenly wished he’d not mentioned it. Just thinking of those last, awful days made him feel physically ill. He remembered how conflicted he’d felt, feigning nonchalance, desperately trying to ascertain why he’d been asked, and what the right answer should be. Should he dismiss her outright, or be truthful? Which answer would press the seal on her death warrant?  
  
“I told him you were passably intelligent, but pedantic and had no imagination whatsoever.”  
  


* * *

She listened carefully, hearing the said and unsaid. Unwillingly, he pressed on. “He made some remark about keeping you as a pet, and I remember Bella volunteering to ‘train’ you.”  
  
This time, Hermione shuddered, and Severus cursed under his breath. It was now or never. “I told him she had enough toys.” He looked up at her from his curtain of lank, oily hair. “I told him I wanted to train you.”  
  
Severus met her eyes and quickly looked away. There were too many emotions warring there for him to get a true read of her. Anger, pain, humiliation, gratitude.  
  
  
  
  
“Did you mean it, or were you just saying it?”  
  
“Does it matter? It never came to anything—”  
  
“Snape, for once in your life can you just answer a simple question without processing it through your Slytherin self-preservation filter?” she exclaimed. Irritation gave her voice a husky, entreating quality. “Just answer the bloody question.”  
  
He stubbornly looked over her shoulder. “I thought, should the worst happen, should the opportunity present itself, I would...I would ask for you. To keep you safe.”  
  
Gods, how anemic that sounded. “I wanted to live,” he added stubbornly. “I—I wanted you to live.”  
  


* * *

She was too quiet. When Hermione Granger had too much time to think, people ended up carried off by centaurs and in St. Mungo’s with indelible acne on their foreheads.  
  
“I admired you.”  
  
He looked up, uncertainly. “From that little opening speech you made to the first years, I was entranced. I thought, ‘here’s someone who's brilliant, and passionate about his subject’, and I wanted to show how much you'd impressed me. I wanted your approval more than the rest of my professors combined. Strange,” she added with deliberate flippancy, “but I never understood why you disliked me so much.  
  


* * *

"I still don’t. What was so easy for my other teachers to do, you couldn’t. And every year I would tell myself, 'oh, suck it up, Hermione. He’s an unpleasant, unhappy man and nothing you will ever say or do is going to change how he feels about you'.”  
  
She looked away. “And then you’d sail in at the start of each year, with your hypnotic voice and your dark bitterness and those gorgeous, fascinating eyes, and I would be hooked all over again. It would take another year’s worth of abuse to stomp that regard into the dust again.”  
  


* * *

They sat in stony silence; Hermione rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Then I watched you die, and I realised that, not only would I never get to know you, you would never feel any desire to get to know me, either."  
  
She drew her fingers over his Dark Mark. It looked like an old sailor's tattoo, faded from sea air and salt spray. "When you survived, all those feelings I had about you turned a bit obsessive. I guess deep down, I still want you to find me worthy. And now, you never will." She sniffed. "I have to go home."  
  


* * *

He placed his hand over hers. "And you shall. Tomorrow." He hated the drained, defeated timbre of his voice. "And I do think you’re worthy. Of a great deal more than me. I’m the one that’s not worthy." He turned away, wondering how erase her tattoo. "This was supposed to be a game. I won't play it anymore."  
  
He rose to leave, but she held him down. Her warm hand touched his shoulder. "Severus! Oh, gods."  
  
He sighed. _Shite. Perfect._  
  
She pushed his hair away. "Have you been wearing a glamour all this time?"  
  
He nodded, too discomfited to lie.  
  
  


* * *

“Would you want to show this off if you could hide it?” he asked, his voice more harsh than was necessary. Her small, soft hand drifted across the hideous scar tissue, the ragged souvenir from the last night of the war. He could feel pity in every touch as her fingers moved over the twisted, scored ridges of his flesh. They traced across the hard, almost sharp edges of the wound, a Braille pattern which chronicled his close brush with death.  
  
“No,” she said, with her voice and with her touch. “I understand. Really, I do. I’m so sorry, Severus.”  
  


* * *

He firmly brushed her hands away. “Ancient history. It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“I think it does—”  
  
“I don’t care what you think, Granger!” he leapt to his feet, feeling sick and ashamed. “You can leave here now, if you want. I won’t stop you.” He crossed his arms, feeling near tears. “I’m not who you think I am, Hermione. I’m nothing special, and I’m not good enough for you to bother to get to know.”  
  
He wandlessly renewed the glamour he always wore to hide the scar. “Don’t feel sorry for me, girl, and don’t come looking for me anymore.”  
  


* * *

“You know,” she said, with uncharacteristic guile, “You could have done a lot of things to me, and you didn’t. You could’ve _Obliviated_ me after performing all sorts, but you were surprisingly accommodating. For a kidnapper.”  
  
“Why does that sound suspiciously like a compliment?”  
  
“Not really. It’s just that your behaviour makes me realise you didn’t want to completely destroy any chance we might have.”  
  
“Chance for what, Granger?” he spat, feeling queasy.  
  
“A possible, future relationship.”  
  
“What possible relationship could you and I have from this point - other than defendant and litigant? Merlin’s ballbag, witch, I kidnapped you!”  
  


* * *

He rose to leave, and she grasped his hand. “I left Ron because he treated me like a slave. At least you apologised for it. This doesn’t have to end badly, Severus.”  
  
Severus rounded on her. “Oh, no. Don’t presume to transfer your affections from Weasley to me because I have a brain and he doesn’t. It won’t work. That’s not what this was about.”  
  
“Then what was it about, Severus?” Her tone was soft, pleading. “Why did you bring me here? For a joke? You told that punchline days ago. Why resist what we’re feeling? Why deny it?”  
  


* * *

He was halfway out of the room when her voice reached out to him.  
  
“You called my name.”  
  
He stopped moving, though he willed his feet to get him out of the room. What he needed to do was ignore that remark, pretend he hadn’t heard it—  
  
“Cassie told me you called my name when you—you climaxed. I don’t think she was lying.”  
  
He swore under his breath. There was literally nothing; no comeback, no sharp retort. She had him by the short and curlies; he might as well stay and face the music.  
  
She wouldn’t let it drop.


	7. Emancipation

“You called my name when you were with that p-prostitute,” she said, stumbling over the last word, then mentally pulling herself up. It was time to put those hang-ups behind. Looking at Severus Snape, his body tensed and ready for flight, Hermione felt a longing deep in her belly.  
  
She walked over to where he stood, and leaned close. He smelled dark and metallic, like iron and blood, and it made her nose tingle pleasantly. “Tell me Cassy lied to me. Then make me believe it.”  
  
He was breathing heavily as he took her in his arms, and Hermione waited...  
  


* * *

“Is this what you really want?” he growled. “Do you think you can look at yourself in the mirror tomorrow if we carry on this conversation?” He shook his head, his eyes burning with desperation, almost fear. “Because, by the gods, witch, I don’t think I could.”  
  
She knew it was the tattoo; she knew it when her arms went around his neck, and she knew it when he shuddered as her lips touched his. “Then make it right, Severus Snape,” she whispered against his warm, inviting mouth. “Do what it takes so we can look in the mirror tomorrow.”  
  


* * *

Severus looked down into her soft brown eyes. They were huge, luminous with desire, and she smelled like a lush garden. He could lose himself in her, and it would be as easy as laying her down on her bed. Her kisses wouldn’t taste of cigarettes and disappointment, her cries of passion wouldn’t be carefully, dispassionately rehearsed. And it would be _his_ name on her lips when her climax came.  
  
So, so easy. And later, when their heads cleared of this blinding fog of lust and desperation, she would despise him more than Lily Potter had ever thought of doing.  
  


* * *

He closed his eyes; he could think straight if he didn’t look at her. “I can’t,” he said, ashamed of how ragged and harsh his voice sounded. “And I won’t until you are no longer influenced by that thrice-damned tattoo.”  
  
He felt her soft hands on his face. “Then remove it. Even in the Muggle world, you can have a tattoo removed.”  
  
“I don’t know how.” He risked meeting her gaze. He slumped. “Brackfawn won’t admit to knowing how, either.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She was looking up at him with that steely, don’t-tell-me-I-can’t-do-something look on her face. “Oh, really?”  
  


* * *

Rob Brackfawn had just chucked out the last straggler when his Floo fired. “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow—”  
  
A creature rushed toward him so quickly he backed into the bar and sent a dozen glasses smashing to the ground. “Brackfawn?” The harpy demanded. “That’s your name, right? And don’t lie!”  
  
He stared in shock. “You! Gods, woman, what are you trying to do, kill me?”  
  
From behind her Severus Snape sauntered out of the Floo. “Not yet, Rob,” he smirked.  
  
He looked from Snape to the girl. Granger, yeah, that was her name. “The bar’s closed,” he began haltingly.  
  


* * *

“Screw the bar, you son of a bitch—”  
  
“Hag, actually.”  
  
She turned to Snape, her expression baffled. “Pardon?”  
  
“Son of a hag. His mother’s a hag.”  
  
“Oh, yes, that’s right. I forgot.” She paused, and looked at Rob closely. “I’ve never actually met a hag. I mean, is wizard-to-hag mating legal in Britain? Do you only have four toes? I mean, which genetics are more dominant—”  
  
“Oh, fuck’s sake, that’s enough!” Rob shouted. He glowered at them, “My toes are none of your business. If you’re here to insult Mummy then you can just get out of here.”  
  


* * *

Hermione looked at Severus, and tried not to laugh. “Mummy?” she echoed. “Does ‘Mummy’ know you’re using hag-wrought magic to imprison wizards, which is considered a class-B offense, punishable by imprisonment?”  
  
“You can’t prove—”  
  
She grabbed a handful of Floo powder and shouted into the flames, “Ephigenia Brackfawn’s hovel!”  
  
“No!” cried Rob, his eyes panic-filled. He pleaded, “Alright. I can’t risk prison. Mummy depends on me.”  
  
“Of course she does,” Hermione answered, her voice sweetly sympathetic. “Now tell Severus how to remove this damned tattoo, or we’ll sell you out to Mummy before you can say Hansel and Gretel.”  
  


* * *

In the dawning light, Severus grasped the back of her neck, and pushed her down until she was bent over his kitchen table. She was pliant, but her flesh was hot; the tattoo pulsed with each heartbeat. Arousal slicked his own skin with a sheen of sweat, but he forced it all down, like a drink of bitter wine.  
  
For a moment, he hesitated, and she chanted softly under her breath, “Do it, Severus. Do it, Severus. Do it; do it.”  
  
He touched his wand to the tattoo, and spoke the words. Each word burned his tongue like a brand.  
  
  
  
At first, it felt cold, as if Severus had placed ice cubes on her back to freeze the mark from her skin. As he evoked the magic, the cold changed to heat, then to burning. She smelled her skin frying. She cried out, too stunned by the pain to move, gasping, pleading for him to hurry, pleading for him to stop, pleading for this to be over....  
  
Gradually, the burning eased. She heard the clatter of wood as his wand fell from his fingers. A shaking hand touched her, and it was cool. But she could still smell burning flesh.  
  


* * *

Severus quaked, and bit his lip as the tattoo vanished from her skin, and arrived on his own. He would not cry out; he deserved it. He’d done this to _her_. He turned away, weeping in pain.  
  
“Severus?” she said, and gingerly pushed herself upright. “Are you—oh, gods!”  
  
On the small of his back, the tattoo’s circular pattern swirled and pulsed, and tears fell unchecked as he endured the fiery trail it cut beneath his skin. This, it seemed, was the tattoo artist’s secret; a blood tattoo belonged first, last and always to the one whose blood created it.  
  


* * *

Severus fell to his knees, blind, deaf and dumb to anything but the fire that etched the mark into his skin. Taking the Dark Mark hadn’t caused this agony. _This is my_ own _Dark Mark_ , he thought. I placed it on her, and now I have to accept the consequences.  
  
He gradually became aware of cool hands on his sweat-soaked brow, and a soft voice gentling him. He heard words that sounded like a spell; Healer’s words, and the pain eased, the burning stopped. “Shh,” the sweet voice soothed. “It’s almost gone now. Just breathe, Severus. I’ve got you now.”  
  


* * *

It was almost three in the afternoon when he awoke. He’d been dreaming of holding a cuddly toy he’d once had, a soft teddy that his Da had won for him at a local fun fair. He’d often slept with it, until the day he’d come home from playing and found it missing. “You’re too old for sissy rubbish,” was all Toby had to say about it.  
  
He opened his eyes, and idly wondered what Toby would have thought had Severus told him that Teddy Boobear had in fact morphed into a soft, beautiful witch lying asleep in his arms?  
  


* * *

They had collapsed onto his sofa once the tattoo had finally, mercifully disappeared from his body. Too exhausted to think, they had fallen asleep almost the moment they became horizontal.  
  
Hermione lay almost on top of him, and though he was parched from thirst, he was loathe to wake her. The compulsion of the tattoo was gone; Brackfawn had sworn on his mum’s remaining tooth that once the mark faded into nothingness, there would be no ownership bond between them at all.  
  
If that was the case, then why did his body stir? Why did he still want her so?  
  


* * *

Hermione stirred, and stretched languidly. “Oh, sorry, Severus,” she mumbled, sounding guilty, and with some effort rose from the sofa. They sat upright, staring ahead, muzzy and uncomfortable with one another.  
  
After a moment, Severus cleared his throat. “You know, you are truly free now. You can leave any time you wish.”  
  
He saw her nod out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, I suppose.”  
  
She lay her cool hand on his shoulder, and he turned to look at her. She was still sleepy and soft and looked even more desirable.  
  
“What if I don’t want to leave yet?”  
  
  
  
Baffled, he blurted, “Why would you want to stay?”  
  
She shrugged. “Curiosity maybe.” Her eyes grew wary. “I could leave, of course. Walk out and never see you again and forget this whole strange little episode in our lives.”  
  
When he didn’t reply, she slid closer. “Or we could see if the attraction between two powerful magical beings is just as strong without a hag-powered compelling tattoo,” she added, with a smirk.  
  
For a moment, Severus’ heart skipped a beat. Or three. “Are you sure?” he asked, hope blooming painfully bright and heavy in his chest. “Don’t play games, Hermione.”  
  


* * *

And suddenly he was in her arms and their kisses were as fiery as the magic that had brought them together. Severus head was spinning, but he knew the truth of her.  
  
She had seen him at his worst, petty, vicious, cruel, needy, pathetic, contrite. All his life, she had been witness to him at his worst. And in spite of that, she had taken his crap and played his games, and forgiven him.  
  
As her long legs wrapped around his, his last rational thought was: _now, witch, I will show you my best. For the rest of my life._  
  
  
  
Mischief Managed (At Last!)


End file.
